Vipassana

 The flight from Winnipeg to Chiang Mai, with layovers in Vancouver and Bangkok, was very long, but I had enough calm and enthusiasm not to worry about it. Only when I stepped out of the Chiang Mai airport did I realize I wasn’t in Canada anymore. It was swelteringly hot, tropical trees grew all around, and green-covered mountains loomed beyond the city.

The hotel where I’d booked a room for three nights was nearby, about a 25-minute walk, so I decided to stretch my legs after the flight and walk there. Chiang Mai is a beautiful city with clean air. Along the way, I saw tropical trees and plants in their natural setting for the first time and listened to the songs of birds I’d never heard before. As Thailand’s cultural capital, Chiang Mai has countless temples. Even on my short walk to the hotel, I spotted several temples in the distance and something similar along the road. Walking wasn’t very convenient. There were few traffic lights, and the sidewalk was only on one side of the road, narrow at that. Plus, road signs and poles with tangled wires sprouted right from the sidewalk, making it even tighter and less comfortable. When I reached the hotel, I grabbed the key and went to my room. It was a decent three-star hotel. The room was spacious with a big bed, a TV on the wall, a wardrobe rack, a kettle, a fridge, a small desk, and even a balcony. After locking the door behind me, I decided to test the lock and tried to open it. Turning the handle, the lock didn’t budge. I flipped the latch in the handle and tried again. Still locked. I repeated this a few times, scanning for another way to open it, but nothing worked. The lock was broken, and I was trapped inside. I decided to call the front desk, but there was no phone in the room, I didn’t have a local SIM card, and my Canadian one no longer worked. I was locked in with no way to communicate. Exhaustion was creeping in, so I decided to deal with it after unpacking some things and lying down for five minutes. After a brief rest, I looked around and thought about how to open the door. No one had passed by in the hallway while I was there, and banging or shouting wasn’t my style. I inspected the lock and realized I couldn’t jimmy it open. Messing with the door seemed pointless too. With a sigh, I glanced at the balcony—it was my only shot at getting out. Luckily, my room was only on the second floor. I stepped onto the balcony and looked around. Outside the railing, at floor level, was a small ledge. Below it, a bit lower, was a concrete overhang, and just beneath that, a sturdy concrete fence about my height. I climbed over the railing, stepped onto the ledge, jumped down to the overhang, made my way to the fence, carefully climbed over, and hopped down to head to the front desk to report the lock issue. The woman working there came back with me to the room, where I opened the door with the key—it worked fine from the outside—and showed her the problem with the door open. For some reason, she thought I was just doing it wrong and decided to show me how. She slammed the door shut before I could stop her. She tried turning the latch every which way, but with each attempt, the realization that we were both locked inside grew on her surprised face. I gave her a wry look, turned, and headed for the balcony. She watched as I climbed down, smiling apologetically. For freeing the hotel worker, I was rewarded with a key to another room on the same floor.

The next few days, I tried to adjust to the new time zone quickly and explored Chiang Mai. As Thailand’s cultural capital, it’s full of Buddhist monasteries. I visited a few. Two stood out. One had an old pyramidal structure that drew my attention, though I couldn’t figure out why. The other was made of metal, etched with countless designs, including depictions of aliens flying in round spaceships across all parts of the world. I also went to the zoo, mainly to see a panda, but it wasn’t there that day. Instead, I was charmed by spotted deer—smaller than I expected and very curious. For a while, I just stood watching them, and they stood watching me. It lasted a few minutes. I don’t recall another animal staring at me that long.
By the third day, I was settling in and almost used to the local time, so I decided to buy a bus ticket to the monastery where I’d practice Vipassana. I couldn’t do it online, so I had to go to the bus station. There were no tickets for the next day, so I extended my hotel stay by one night. I left Chiang Mai for Wat Pa Tam Wua monastery on a rather old minibus. My seat was standard, second row on the left by the window. The ride was tough for me. The bus was hot and stuffy. We drove through mountains, so the road was winding and constantly climbed or descended. My vestibular system wasn’t used to it, and I barely kept nausea at bay. When we finally reached the stop near the monastery, I sighed with relief and joy that it was over. The area was breathtaking—mountains covered in trees surrounded everything, feeling majestic and powerful. Apart from the occasional car on the highway, there were hardly any sounds of civilization—just nature singing around me. As I approached a small canopy with a registration desk, a minibus full of people pulled up, likely a direct route from Pai, about two hours away. A whole group arrived, and I registered, lost among them. I fell under the monastery’s new rules: you could register for only five days, not ten as before, with the option to re-register. I wanted to surrender all my belongings, but that wasn’t allowed. They showed me where to get clean white clothes, a mattress, and bedding, and gave me the number of the house I’d stay in. A Thai woman handed me everything, and I headed to the house. It was a two-story wooden building with smooth walls, resembling a small barracks outside. The windows were small with mosquito nets, blending into the walls. I figured the second floor might be hotter, so I went to the first. Apart from small lockers for valuables by the wall opposite the entrance, there was no furniture—not even beds. Near the lockers, a door led to two separate shower rooms with toilets. I set up along the right wall, near the entrance. I laid my mattress—thin as my pinky—on the floor and put my things beside it, near my head, against the wall.

The orientation for staying at the monastery was set for 4:00 p.m., so I had a few hours to shower, change, and rest from the trip. At a quarter to four, I left the house. A Thai man approached and asked for help. I didn’t understand what he needed but followed him. We reached an area with many tents, all set up on wooden beds, not the ground. Another guy in white clothes and a monk with a sun umbrella were there. I gathered the monk asked to move some beds to certain houses, so the Thais removed the tents, and we started loading. When the truck was full, we drove closer to the registration desk, where I was already late for orientation, but I didn’t want to ditch the task. We distributed the beds to the houses, and I went to the registration desk. About twenty people were there, and no one noticed my tardiness. The rules were simple: don’t kill (even insects), don’t steal, don’t give in to lust, speak the truth, and follow the schedule. After the explanation, I approached the woman leading the orientation and asked her to sum up what I missed in the first fifteen minutes. It was nothing I hadn’t heard later, just that you could take a “Silent” badge to signal others not to start idle chats. I took the badge, pinned it to my clothes, and checked the schedule. Next was cleaning the grounds, so I grabbed a rake and started gathering fallen leaves. The schedule continued with evening prayer and meditation, then free time, personal meditation before bed, and lights out. Honestly, I didn’t like the schedule. You had to wake up early, then personal morning meditation, offering food to monks, breakfast, prayer, walking meditation, sitting meditation, some lying meditation, a monk’s talk before lunch, offering food to monks, lunch, prayer before meditation, walking meditation, sitting, lying, then cleaning, evening prayer and meditation, personal meditation, and bedtime. Overall, there was plenty of free time daily, but since it came in 20-minute to one-hour breaks between tasks, it felt like there was hardly any. Plus, I generally hate living by a schedule, so it was tough, and I didn’t always meditate after waking or before bed.

The first day, after evening meditation, I went to sleep. But falling asleep was hard despite exhaustion. The mattress was so thin it hurt to lie on, making it tough to rest. A day later, I noticed bruises on my hips from trying to sleep on my side. By the second day, I tried to flow with the monastery’s rhythm, but I only managed by the fifth. I just tried to do as told and follow the rules. It was far from easy. I recalled YouTube bloggers who filmed this monastery. “Beautiful nature, just come and enjoy the retreat,” they said. “Relax and vibe,” they said. I don’t know what kind of enthusiasm let them say that, but my experience was completely different. Though the nature was indeed stunning—the temple sits at the foot of a mountain where wild nature begins, only slightly disturbed by a small path for walking meditation, ending at a cave with incense and a mat in the center. Beyond the monastery, two mountains framed the sunrise, making dawn magical. A clear lake with tons of fish sat in the middle of the grounds, and a well-kept flower garden lay near the kuti houses, with various trees scattered throughout.

There were also tons of insects that bit me and drank my blood almost daily. At first, I fled from mosquitoes in panic because they were black-and-white, like dengue fever carriers. A few days later, someone told me not all such mosquitoes carry the disease, so I calmed down and let them drink my blood. Twice during the first scheduled walking meditation, which looped along a concrete path in the manicured area, a small red ant climbed my left leg. The first time, I noticed because it bit me. I love walking and indulging in thoughts or daydreams, so it was hard not to think during walking meditation, and then an ant bit me. It didn’t stop, biting again and again. It was bearable, so I kept walking. I didn’t want to stop and brush it off, so I let it bite, but after the third bite, it stopped. A day later, it happened again in the same spot on the path, with two bites. I couldn’t figure out why it needed to bite me. During the second walking meditation, we walked a path under the mountain among tropical trees and bushes. Mosquitoes constantly pestered me there, buzzing by my ear—sometimes right, sometimes left. They followed me relentlessly, rarely landing, as if they came just to disrupt my focus. Once, during such a walk, I felt something land on the inside of my left forearm. Lifting my arm, I saw an insect shaped like a ladybug but swamp-green. I checked my other arm and found the same insect in the same spot. It was odd—they were like forest special forces on a mission, dropping onto me from nowhere. I decided to observe. Seconds later, they bit me, both at once. I waited since they’d already done it, and brushing them off seemed pointless. But seconds later, I realized they were still biting—not like an ant’s bite but more like a mosquito’s. Not knowing these bugs or what to expect, I got scared and blew them off. I never saw them again. Otherwise, I loved walking under the mountain. I couldn’t meditate there, so I enjoyed the stroll. I always went barefoot and loved walking gracefully off-road, balancing my body by distributing weight on my feet while scanning the ground for the best path—it amused me. Those walks also helped me meditate better afterward. Speaking of insects, they were my closest companions throughout Vipassana. On the fifth day, I went to the registration desk to get on the kuti waitlist. They said there was no waitlist, asked if I followed the schedule and helped with cleaning, and when I said I never missed either, they gave me a key. They added that a kuti was a privilege and I should set an example. Since I’d only been late once (missing the morning food offering on the first day due to a time mix-up) and helped whenever possible—once even getting candy for it—nothing changed except that I now lived alone in a kuti. Well, not exactly alone. Tiny black ants lived with me. They had trails and gathering spots all over the kuti. I tried washing them away with water, scared I’d kill too many with a broom. But it didn’t stop them, and by evening, they’d reclaimed the place. I tried smearing their paths with shower gel and toothpaste, but that was only a temporary fix. Eventually, I accepted living with them.

Sometimes, during meditation, a bee would visit. My feet don’t smell like flowers, but bees always loved crawling under my soles. It’d scurry across my foot for a bit, then fly off. Once, at the start of evening meditation, a mosquito landed on my right hand and bit me. Oddly, it helped me focus. After 10-15 minutes, I no longer felt the bite. Compared to past attempts, I focused well that time and started sensing my body better. Then, a mosquito landed on my neck, from the back. I decided not to shoo it but observe. I felt it approach, the breeze from its wings, each tiny leg on my skin. I even felt the depth of its proboscis. As it drank my blood, it felt unusual—not just a prick but like some energy was being drawn within a one-to-two-centimeter radius of the bite. Interestingly, it felt like energy. The mosquito seemed to siphon a tiny, negligible bit of my energy, so I didn’t mind sharing. When it finished and withdrew its proboscis, I felt every moment of it. In a way, it aided my meditation, at least helping me realize I could sense my body far better than usual. Summing up my insect encounters, they were a big part of my Vipassana.

On the sixth day, during the morning meditative walk, I realized I still didn’t understand why I was here or what to do next. I thought about what I’d done the past year. In short, I’d been shedding excess, learning to set the right priorities for myself, and letting go of old matters and whims. It struck me that I hadn’t noticed this before. In a way, I was clearing my mind of stray thoughts—or rather, preventing them from arising. I’d already noticed that many thoughts that used to pop up in various situations no longer did. After some reflection, I decided I needed to review all situations I felt ended wrongly or with unresolved issues. Ideally, this would involve everyone from those situations. I know they might not need it and could have forgotten not just the conflicts but me entirely. But I needed it, so I should at least try to ask for their help.
The first and easiest thing that came to mind was situations with Bartek and Radek. Back then, I’d started working with Stas, and we took on some construction jobs where Radek was the site owner, and Bartek acted as the official face, handling legal matters through his firm. At first, things went well: we hired people, bought tools, ordered materials, and the work progressed with no complaints from Radek. Over time, we had issues with workers and material deliveries, and things started spiraling. I couldn’t find facade workers for the salary we offered, and eventually, Stas found a crew through contacts. That crew later bypassed us, took money from Radek by exploiting his trust, ditched us, and vanished. Worst of all, Stas wasn’t around. He had personal issues and had to leave the country temporarily. Even contacting him was hard—sometimes he didn’t respond for days. My inexperience and his absence made things worse, and problems piled up. Radek was furious that the site had turned into a circus and work nearly stopped. Bartek was mad because, legally, he’d have to answer for it all. At one point, Radek got tired of waiting for Stas and gave me the green light to make decisions. But I couldn’t give myself that authority—we’d agreed Stas had the final say. Still, with Stas out of touch for so long, I had to make choices, and I realized I wasn’t ready. Instead of admitting it, I tried to shoulder the burden. Not only did I fail, but one worker, from the second-floor roof, splattered mortar on several cars, scratching them, which added to Bartek’s problems and eroded his patience. The crew Stas found scammed me, took Radek’s money, and left without finishing. We had no specialists, and tools kept breaking. I had to explain to the worker who messed up the cars why he’d get paid for his roof work but why we wouldn’t get paid for it at all. All this happened when I had a chance to make decisions independently. In the end, I lost workers, the client’s trust, the support of the person who took legal responsibility for my actions, and faith in myself. Only now do I see how much I actually gained there, but back then, it felt like a disaster. Stas returned, but it was too late to fix anything, so we left for Warsaw to start over. Later, Bartek called, offering to work off the damage for the cars. I was fine paying, but I didn’t want to work for him—not because I disliked him; Bartek was a cheerful guy, and I have nothing bad to say about him. I just couldn’t abandon Stas. Maybe it’s because, as a kid, a friend ditched me in front of the whole class. That hurt deeply. The shock of being abandoned and knowing things would never be the same stunned me. I saw many people were mad at Stas and turned away from him then, so I couldn’t leave him. In the end, I didn’t pay Bartek anything because he wouldn’t show a fine receipt, and Stas said that meant no fine was issued, and I chose to believe him. Now I see I had a chance to make amends right away but didn’t take it. So, I really want to apologize to Bartek and Radek and, if they allow, make things right.

This was such a resolute thought that I instantly knew where I needed to go next. Now I had business in Poland.
Over the next few days, I noticed fewer thoughts arising in my mind than before, which helped me see things I’d missed. When your head’s cluttered with nonsense, truly important thoughts can’t stand out—they get little attention.
On the seventh day, after evening prayer and meditation, which I was thoroughly sick of, I returned to my kuti. The sun had long set, but it was bright enough—the full moon shone in all its glory. Soft moonlight fell on the mountains, trees, houses, paths, and even a tiny blade of grass by the roadside, making everything a bit monotone but no less beautiful. I sat on a bench outside my kuti and gazed at the moon for a few minutes. I’ve always liked it. As a kid, I often slept in a room with three windows, and every full moon, my room filled with moonlight. For some reason, I loved that. Sitting there, I thought that, though I’d decided where to go next, it felt like it wasn’t enough. It was my only direction, and I wasn’t sure it sufficed. Something else was nagging at me, but I couldn’t pinpoint what. So, I started asking the moon personal questions. It felt better than spinning them in my head. Memories of various life events and situations started flooding back, leading me to early childhood. At one point, I reached the question: “Who decides what’s good or bad?” More memories surfaced, completely transformed by applying this question. After a cascade of flashbacks and re-evaluations, another question hit me: What is good, and what is bad? With those questions, such a massive part of my world collapsed, such a huge chunk of my past became false, that tears streamed down before I even realized I was crying. The next two days, I spent in memories and tears.

Now I think no one can tell me who I am, yet everyone can. It makes no difference, so it’s just fuss. No one can be right, but everyone is. Truth and falsehood are the same. All words and concepts live in me; they don’t exist outside me. If someone says the sky is blue, it’s only because they see it that way.